Flowers, Ink, and Window Panes
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Aziraphale opened his flower shop across the street from Crowley's tattoo parlor three months ago, and in that amount of time, they've said a grand total of six lines to one another. That's not to say Crowley hasn't been trying to find a way to break the ice. What could they possibly have in common. Until one day, Crowley finds a way to talk to Aziraphale without saying a word.


**Summary:**

**Aziraphale opened his flower shop across the street from Crowley's tattoo parlor three months ago, and in that amount of time, they've said a grand total of six lines to one another - the same six lines they recite every morning before they start their day. That's not to say Crowley hasn't been trying to find a way to break the ice, invite the man out on a date, but past anxiety is holding him back. What in the world would he say to him? What could they possibly have in common. Until one day, Crowley finds a way to talk to Aziraphale without saying a word.**

_**Notes:**_

_**Written for Scribblemakes and their prompt 'Florist/Tattoo artist AU'. I hope you enjoy it :D**_

Crowley sits at his work station and watches the clock, the second hand hopping from dash to dash, ratcheting up his heart rate with every jerky bounce. He hasn't opened his shop yet, doesn't normally open up in the mornings without an appointment, and even then, not before eleven.

He's a man who appreciates his sleep.

_Normally_.

But for the past three months, he's gotten up early, showered and dressed, to sit at his station and babysit his wall clock until ten.

When the man across the narrow street from him unlocks his doors.

The last five minutes are the hardest as the minute hand creeps toward the twelve and the hour hand lingers, hovering close to the ten but not quite touching it. A bizarre anxiety builds in Crowley's chest that it might never get there, that his clock might break down and throw everything out of whack. Irrationally, he has imbued his clock with far too much power; that its running out of battery may cause the man across the way to show up late.

Or not at all.

Crowley can't even recall the last time he changed the batteries in that thing. Or his smoke detector. Or the remote to the in-shop telly.

Half the time he's convinced these things run on sheer will alone.

But after the longest five minutes of his life, his clock finishes its journey to ten a.m., and across the street, _thankfully_, the man with the keen sense of punctuality makes an appearance.

Crowley doesn't rush outside to greet him, not even after all that waiting and clock watching and sweating through questions of battery life.

No.

He rises up from his stool leisurely, rolls his neck on his shoulders, takes a deep breath in through his nose, then lets it out through his mouth. He counts to five, then counts to five again. He grabs his leather jacket and strolls towards the front door, unlocking it and sauntering outside as if he, too, were simply opening up shop for the day.

Calm, cool, and collected (on the outside) he raises an arm in greeting. "Good morning, Mr. Fell!"

The man turns, catches Crowley's eye, and smiles.

Smiles as if he's just seen the sun for the first time and fallen in love.

That smile alone is worth getting up early for.

"Good morning, Mr. Crowley!" the man answers, waving back with his whole body as if Crowley were standing on the bow of a ship across a channel as opposed to the curb across a single, one-way street.

It's worth acknowledging, as Crowley zips up his motorcycle jacket, bracing himself against the chill morning air, that the constantly cheery and pleasantly plump object-of-Crowley's-affections dresses like an unfortunate toddler saddled with a generous but drunk grandmother. Every day with him is a new adventure in tacky, floral-themed jumpers (today's selection something resembling daffodils if they were featured in a Tim Burton movie) accompanied by khaki pants and a pair of Derby shoes that last saw their heyday when Vaudeville died.

But his jumpers, and the fact that he can go an entire month without wearing the same one twice, are part of his charm.

"Mr. Fell!" Crowley leans forward so far off the edge of the sidewalk, a stiff breeze might shove him into the street. "How many times have I told you? Call me _Anthony_."

"And I've told you as many times to call me Aziraphale, my dear boy, and yet … here we are."

Crowley laughs. He shoves his hands in his pockets and busies himself with the mindless task of inspecting the sidewalk outside his shop for trash. But the sidewalk isn't just clean this morning. The cement is _immaculate_, the city having come by in the night and done their jobs well for once. Still, he slips on a pair of the latex gloves he keeps in his pants pocket and starts collecting up infinitesimal pieces of debris – the curled corner of a Snickers wrapper, a cigarette butt smoked way into the filter, and a decrepit piece of what could have once been chewing gum, and carries them to the wire trash can by the curb. Then he inspects his window, checks the edges of the decals that spell out his shop's name – _Eden Ink_.

For what, he hasn't a clue.

Anything to keep him outside until Mr. Fell, doing much of the same, calls out to him again.

"Have a lovely day, Mr. Crowley!"

"And you as well, Mr. Fell!"

Except this time, this _one_ time, as Crowley turns to go back inside, he distinctly hears Mr. Fell say in a soft voice, "I mean, _Anthony_."

Crowley stops in his tracks. He spins around. He catches a glimpse of white teeth biting into a pink lower lip before Mr. Fell hurries into his shop, the bells above his door tinkling behind him.

"And you as well," Crowley repeats, watching Mr. Fell's back as he begins lugging flower buckets from his cooler to start working on his orders, "_Aziraphale_."

* * *

Three months.

It's been three months since Aziraphale Fell opened the florist shop across the street, and those few lines of dialogue, recited daily, are the farthest Crowley has gotten with regard to asking the man out on a date.

_God_! He's gotta come up with better material!

And maybe grow a pair. That'd help, too.

But Crowley doesn't know how to talk to the bookish man who owns the flower shop. It shouldn't be that difficult to strike up a conversation with him. Crowley talks to people all the time. Occupational hazard and all that. If he could get Aziraphale into his chair, then he might have a chance at learning the man's secrets. People seem to equate the tattoo artist's chair with the therapist's couch. The second his gun starts buzzing, they spill their secrets.

Maybe, in Aziraphale's case, he'd find an in to spill some secrets of his own.

And if he ordered coffee and donuts from the deli down the street, it would come close to _something_ like a date.

Crowley sighs at this plan.

Sure. On the off, off, off, off, off, off chance Aziraphale ever wanders over looking to get a tattoo, coffee and donuts might be considered a date.

In the truly _pathetic_ sense.

Which could mean that Crowley and the bubbly grandma who came in a week ago to get the Tasmanian Devil on her upper arm (altered here and there to resemble her late husband, Arnold, since that was his favorite cartoon) and offered him a butterscotch candy had also been on a date.

She'd been sweet and everything (and from the pictures she'd shown him, a looker in her day) but a world of no.

As much as Crowley would like to start a relationship with Aziraphale, even if it were simply the coffee and donut kind, he can't seem to find a jumping off point. It sounds cliché, and a hundred rom-coms have done it better, but what in the world could they ever have in common?

Rationally, looking past the shallow, they both own small businesses in the exact same neighborhood. That's one thing they have in common. Sounds like a pretty big jumping off point.

Crowley _could_ find out the rest by talking to him.

But it's not as easy as it sounds.

Not for Crowley.

People tend to assume Crowley is fathoms more exciting than he is because he owns a tattoo parlor and drives a motorcycle. But nothing could be further from the truth. His business and his bike are the limit lines where interesting things end. Otherwise he's a simple man who spends much of his time outside work tending to a few small plants and watching retro 80s television.

(Plants! That's another thing they have in common! Wait – are flowers the same as plants? Must be. They both have leaves, right?)

But the persona his job earns him, which he plays no active part in cultivating, is one of the reasons it's difficult for him to open up to anyone, particularly potential love interests.

He doesn't want to show people the real him and risk their being disappointed in what they _don't_ see.

So, Crowley watches Aziraphale instead of risking rejection, has turned watching him into a sport. Not in a creepy way. He's not stalking him or anything. But watching the man assemble his arrangements is cathartic, seeing him interact with his customers mesmerizing. _Fell's Flowers_ became popular overnight when Aziraphale moved into the neighborhood. He must have brought clientele with him from a previous shop that stayed loyal to his business because Crowley has never seen any store apart from the food markets do the kind of business Aziraphale's does daily.

There was a time when Crowley thought Aziraphale might be a drug dealer, using his shop as a front. If he is, then he's the kindest, friendliest, most compassionate drug dealer Crowley has ever met. Some of the people who stop by stay for close to an hour while they pour their hearts out to him. And Aziraphale listens to every word while he puts their orders together.

But that's not all he does.

He makes them feel at home – serves them tea, feeds them biscuits, and, from the back and forth Crowley has observed, gives them advice. It must be good advice, too, because there hasn't been a single person he's seen who hasn't left smiling.

Looking back at it now, Crowley feels the odds of Aziraphale being a drug dealer are very slim.

But if Aziraphale _is_ a drug dealer, that wouldn't make Crowley admire him any less.

* * *

Aziraphale runs his shop on a schedule Crowley could set his watch by. With the exception of which customers come in and when, he opens his shop at ten, has his buckets out of the cooler and lined up by 10:15, and starts putting together arrangements by 10:30. These aren't estimations. These are on the dot times. Once or twice, Crowley has used them to keep track of his own schedule, like how long his kettle has been on the stove, how long his tea bag has been steeping, how long he's been shading, how long his pizza rolls have been cooling, and the like. Aziraphale takes lunch promptly at noon, closes up to go for a walk around the block at noon thirty, starts his cleaning up at five forty-five, and closes at six.

So it definitely attracts Crowley's attention (even though there's a man in his chair getting the wrist portion of his sleeve touched-up) when, at around three in the afternoon, Aziraphale pops out of his shop carrying a bucket and a rag with him. He puts the bucket down, dips the rag inside, then starts scrubbing his window – as far as his arms can reach, anyway. When he's done, he stands and stares at it with hands on hips, contemplating _something_.

The pigeons nesting on the fire escape? Have they been messing his window? No, that doesn't seem the type of thing that would bother Aziraphale. Crowley can't see him putting up bird wire or anything like that. More than likely he'd invite them in, give them birdseed on toast, and ask them about their day.

Crowley turns off his gun and makes a few adjustments as an excuse to watch Aziraphale without distraction. He sees Aziraphale pull a square of paper from his pocket, unfold it, and tape it to the bottom right corner of his window. Crowley squints to read it, but the writing is so faint, he can't make it out from this distance. From the same pocket, Aziraphale pulls out a black marker and begins writing on the glass.

_'What in the world?'_ Crowley thinks as he watches Aziraphale draw an outline, referring back to the picture from time to time. He shakes his head, pulls the rag out of the bucket, wrings it out, and erases a few lines. He waits for the window to dry, then goes back over the same lines slowly. Without even looking at the picture to check his progress, he shakes his head again, mumbling to himself, and erases what he's drawn. He waits for the window to dry then starts sketching again. Halfway through, he steps back to take a look.

Crowley can't see the window clearly. But from Aziraphale's posture, he seems positively defeated.

"Hey! What's the hold up? I'm paying you by the _hour_!" the man in Crowley's chair grumbles when he sees Crowley motionless, staring blankly out the window.

"Hold yer horses, a'right?" Crowley snaps. "My gun's gone dodgy. I've gotta switch it out. I'll comp you fifteen minutes."

"You'd bettah."

Crowley gets up from his stool and grabs his spare gun to save face. He'll comp the man thirty in the end to shut his pie hole. He _is_ a repeat customer and besides, Crowley is eating up his time. He'll admit that.

From this change in perspective, Crowley snags a better look at Aziraphale's drawing on the window and … _yikes_.

It's not … bad.

It's just …. not … _good_.

But drawing on windows can be difficult. It takes practice. A few more tries and Aziraphale will get it right.

Crowley thinks so anyway.

He wishes he could stick his head out the door and tell him so, but that might be awkward, all things considered.

Aziraphale drops his head.

He tears the paper off the window, crumples it up, and tosses it in the wire trash can by the curb. He fishes his rag out of the bucket and scrubs his window clean, eliminating all traces of the black outline. Then he grabs his bucket, walks sadly to his front door, and goes back inside his shop, leaving Crowley to wonder what in the world happened.

And how can he fix it.

* * *

It's close to eleven o'clock when Crowley leaves his shop and ventures across the street. Aziraphale closed up precisely at six, went upstairs to his apartment, and had his lights out by eight, but Crowley had appointments till well past. After his final customer bid him adieu, Crowley could finally investigate the picture in the trash can.

The picture whose presence has been burning a hole in his brain ever since Aziraphale tossed it away.

Unlike the trash on the curb outside Crowley's shop, few people use the trash can outside Aziraphale's, so the crumpled ball sits right on top a stack of abandoned newspapers, courtesy of the douchebag who dumps his daily haul without delivering and then cashes his paycheck. Crowley reaches a gloved hand in, snatches it out, and straightens it, smoothing the wrinkles between his fingers. He holds it up to the light of the street lamp overhead to get a better look.

It's a picture of a rose – line art printed off a computer, simple enough to recreate. But drawing on glass, especially a large window like Aziraphale's, can be a challenge. Plus use the wrong cleaner and the paint won't stick. Crowley should know. He'd been doing the art on his window for years before it became too much of a chore. Now he mainly sticks to throwing stuff up for the major holidays, or paints something silly on nights when he gets sentimental and drunk, which hasn't been in a while.

He's curious why Aziraphale thought to paint his window now, at the tail end of February, with nothing particularly spectacular going on. Curb appeal? He definitely doesn't need to attract new business. Or maybe he wants a change. Something fun to look at.

Something _new_.

The neighborhood outside their window isn't always the most pleasant. Not that it's a bad neighborhood. There's not much crime, they don't need gates. But it can be dull. Uneventful. That's one of the reasons Crowley had started painting his window to begin with. He'd wanted something different to look at, a new vista every once in a while.

Crowley smiles.

He has an idea, and a whole load of paint in the back room of his shop.

Maybe he can't find the courage to ask Aziraphale out for coffee, but he can definitely change his view.

* * *

Crowley takes longer than he anticipated finishing up his masterpiece, so by the next morning, he goes straight from his endeavor into a shower. He gets dressed, makes himself a fresh pot of coffee, grabs a cheese Danish from the fridge, and sits at his station.

There he waits.

He doesn't watch the clock this time. He watches the window, the rising sun touching the glass and making it twinkle. As the new day dawns, brimming with promise, so does Aziraphale, coming down to open up at ten o'clock exactly. He rounds the well of the staircase that leads to the upstairs but before he gets anywhere near the door, key in hand, he stops.

And he stares.

Stares so long that Crowley begins to worry.

Aziraphale approaches the window, a careful hand outstretched, but he doesn't touch the glass. Fingertips tremble within reach of a single petal but they don't make contact.

Roses.

Crowley had painted roses.

A waterfall of tea roses rendered in multiple shades of red and pink, shaded in white, yellow, and blue to give them depth. Aziraphale looks around, searching for the person responsible, his face glowing from a smile that doesn't seem to stop. When Crowley strolls out of his shop, fighting to remain nonchalant in the presence of that smile, Aziraphale calls out, "Anthony! Oh, Anthony! Did you … have you seen what someone's done to my window?"

"Good morning, Mr. Fell. I …" Crowley stumbles in the midst of his usual script when he realizes Aziraphale called him _Anthony_. Not once, but twice. "Y-yes, I have," he says, switching gears to accommodate. "Do you like it?" He can't help asking though it might seem an odd thing.

But he needs to know.

"Oh, it's remarkable! Simply breathtaking! I had wanted to do something just like this myself, only I don't have a talent for drawing!"

"Nonsense," Crowley rebuts, saying what he'd wanted to say yesterday. "Art is a pursued interest. If it's something you want to do, keep at it. I'm … I'm sure you could find yourself a teacher. You know, to get you started."

It's an invitation, and he tries to make it sound like an invitation. Of course, saying the words, "I could teach you to draw. I'd be happy to!" apparently never occur to him.

"I might do that," Aziraphale says, a blush to rival the roses rising to his cheeks. "Have a lovely day, Anthony."

"You, too, Aziraphale."

The blush on Aziraphale's cheeks deepens, blossoms into a full-fledged flame as he turns shy eyes back to his window one last time, then opens up his shop.

* * *

The roses stay up for over two weeks, the paint keeping its brilliance long past what's stated on the can, and during that time, Crowley and Aziraphale add more lines to their morning dialogue.

"Fine weather we're having."

"We are, aren't we? Quite surprising considering the cold."

"Good thing. Keeps my roses from wilting, so to speak."

"Yes." Crowley smiles. "That is a good thing."

"By the way, I meant to tell you, if you know someone who might be willing to teach me to draw, I'd be quite interested in learning."

"I …" That one catches Crowley off guard, the batting of Aziraphale's blue eyes nearly knocking him off his feet. Crowley had been musing over Aziraphale's adorably awful bright yellow and orange sunflower jumper when Aziraphale said it, so it didn't sink in right away. But now, with those words out of Aziraphale's mouth and hanging in the air, Crowley can't seem to cough out an answer.

The answer he's been dying to give.

"I … I'll give it some … I mean, if I think of anyone, I'll … uh … yes. Right. A teacher." And with that, he turns back to his shop yelling, "Coming, coming, I'll be right with you," as if someone called his name from inside.

Of course, there is no one, so he looks like an imbecile.

When the roses start to chip, Aziraphale tries to patch them up with paint he'd bought to begin with. Crowley is sketching the template for a complicated piece he'll put on a customer later in the day and doesn't catch him before he tries.

By the time he sees, it's too late.

Mixing the two paints makes it chip even more. Eventually, Aziraphale's patching does more harm than good and he's forced to take the painting down. He gives the paint job one last, longing look, then starts to scrub, his shoulders hanging as the roses bleed away.

And Crowley watches him. Watches him when he should go outside and offer to help, or reassure him that he'll replace it for him. But even though he has no customer to monopolize his attention, he can't bring himself to. He simply sighs and frowns along with Aziraphale as he scrubs his window clean and then retreats inside his shop, going back to his arrangements, his wistful expression heart wrenching from across a street with two plates of glass between them.

* * *

Crowley gazes at Aziraphale's window throughout the day, every time he has a moment free. He knows he can't leave it bare. He just can't. He's been dismal as a neighbor, a coward as a potential romantic interest. If all he can do to bring joy into this man's life is paint his window then, by Someone, he's going to do it.

He waits until Aziraphale's lights are out and his own customers have gone. Then he pads his way across the street, paint in hand, and heads straight for the window. He'd made a decision over his choice of flower about a week ago, inspired by one of Aziraphale's disastrous jumpers.

_Sunflowers_.

Yellow and orange sunflowers. As many of them as he can fit in the space between the red brick. That way, Aziraphale can wear that horrendous jumper as many times as he likes and he and his window will match.

Besides, Aziraphale's smile reminds Crowley of the sun.

* * *

"Sunflowers have to be one of my favorite flowers in the universe." Aziraphale sighs, staring at the field on his window, painted to look like it goes on for miles and miles beneath milky clouds and a blue sky.

"Really?" Crowley asks, taking a few steps out into the middle of the street so he can talk to Aziraphale without yelling. "And why is that?"

"They make you happy, for one." Aziraphale glances over his shoulder at Crowley inching closer to him. "They're bright and cheerful. You can't help smiling when you look at them."

"I suppose …" Crowley takes another step.

"In the language of flowers they mean friendship. And faith and loyalty. Those are such lovely messages to give. People get so caught up in this need to only express passionate love, which, let's be honest, is usually passionate _lust_."

Crowley chuckles at hearing the word _lust_ pass over Aziraphale's lips. Never in a hundred years would he have pictured _that_ happening. But Aziraphale's statement reminds him how many times over Valentine's he'd put someone's name, or their _face_, on a customer's arm, knowing he'll be covering it up again come April.

He's already done a few and it's barely the middle of March.

Most artists would turn down a request to do some of the portraits he'd done last month, but for Crowley, who's famous for his impeccable cover up work, he sees them as guaranteed business.

Humans can be impulsive creatures.

Stupid ones, too.

But he doesn't judge his customers based on their poor decision making skills.

They pay his rent.

Aziraphale tilts his head and sighs again. "It's so nice to be reminded that passionate _friendship_ exists. Don't you think?"

"I do." Another step.

"Seed-bearing sunflowers carry a sophisticated mathematical pattern in their centers. The Golden Ratio. I used to sit in my mother's garden and stare at it for hours. Still do when I get them in my shop. It mirrors the stars in the Heavens, the swirling galaxies. To my eyes, at least. Of course, what do I know about the stars? I own a flower shop."

"You're not wrong," Crowley agrees, stepping onto the curb. "The Fibonacci sequence. I learned about it in art class."

"Did you?" Aziraphale's gaze travels over his shoulder, assessing Crowley's progress. He motions with his head to the space beside him in what seems like a request.

To come stand beside him.

And Crowley accepts.

"Yes," he says, sauntering over. "You don't need to be an astronomer or a mathematician to understand it. Patterns and sequences? They occur everywhere in nature. You probably see more of them in your line of work than most people."

"You think so?"

"Yes, I do."

"I never realized. Well, then …" Aziraphale winks at Crowley "… maybe that's something my new art tutor will be willing to teach me."

* * *

Crowley no longer waits for the paint on the flowers to chip before he changes them. He does it weekly, too impatient to bring joy into Aziraphale's life to wait for the old flowers to degrade on their own.

After the sunflowers, he paints poppies.

Then posies.

Azaleas.

Carnations.

Gerberas.

Orchids.

Every morning after, Crowley sits at his station and waits to see Aziraphale's reaction.

And Aziraphale never disappoints.

It gets to the point Aziraphale rushes down his staircase on Monday morning to see his new flowers. Crowley wanders out after Aziraphale has time to examine his creations and they talk, Crowley crossing the street proactively so he and Aziraphale can stand side by side.

"You know," Aziraphale says, "I'm beginning to think you don't want me to learn how to draw."

"Why's that?"

"You haven't given me the name of a teacher. It's been _weeks_!"

"Well, I …" Crowley stutters, not sure how to answer that one. He doesn't want to recommend anyone. He would love to teach Aziraphale to draw himself. Of course he would! But sharing that with him seems so intimate, much more so than grabbing a coffee, which he also hasn't asked him to do. So for lack of a better answer, he comes out with the lamest thing he could possibly say. "I'm sure you could Google someone in the area who could teach you. Or look on YouTube. There're some good _how to_ videos on there." Then Crowley closes his eyes, praying that a hole will open up beneath him so he can disappear into the concrete.

"I think I'll wait until you come up with someone," Aziraphale says, a smile in his voice. A forgiving one, thank the Lord. "I'd rather get a teacher on the recommendation of someone I trust then go hen pecking through Craigslist. Probably end up in the boot of someone's car then."

"Ngk …. you have a point."

"Thank you, by the way."

Crowley opens his eyes to check why. What has he done since he made that asinine _YouTube_ suggestion that warrants a thank you? Aziraphale is still staring at Crowley's latest creation – bluebells swaying gently in an unseen breeze. He's getting better. Crowley has to admit that about himself.

Then again, putting paint on paper is something he's always been good at.

The only thing, it turns out.

"What for?" Crowley asks, nervous because he thinks Aziraphale has him figured out. Why that would be bad, Crowley hasn't the foggiest idea. Aziraphale _loves_ his paintings. But Aziraphale knowing that he's putting them on his window fills Crowley with anxiety nonetheless.

"For coming out and talking to me. To be honest, I've thought about crossing the street and stopping in so many times, only I … I just couldn't seem to …" Aziraphale swallows the end of that sentence, seems to jump on a different horse and change course. "I'm not very good around people."

Crowley snorts. Is Aziraphale kidding him? Not good with _what _now? He said car engines, right? Speaking Greek? Training ferrets? "Now that I don't believe."

"It's true. Even people I get on with right away, I just … I get so nervous. I'm so afraid I'm going to mess things up and they'll never want to speak to me again."

"Rough owning a shop that people like then, huh?"

"Yes, well, I opened the shop because I love flowers, not because I like people. Don't get me wrong, people can be great. And I like my customers. But I love being surrounded by flowers. And I do need to pay the rent but …" Aziraphale pauses, leans in towards Crowley's ear "Can I tell you a secret?"

Crowley's heart races. _One of Aziraphale's secrets?_ "Of course. Anything."

"You're going to think I'm ridiculous."

"No, I won't. I promise."

Aziraphale's eyes dart to Crowley's face, double-checking to see if he's being sincere. Crowley schools his face into the most genuine mask of sincerity he can muster. He's not going to blow this chance at finding out one of Aziraphale's secrets.

At this rate, it might be the only chance he gets.

"I switched neighborhoods because my last shop was so popular, it became overwhelming. It was nerve wracking opening the doors every morning. I thought the change would do me good, but everyone found out where I was headed and followed me here. If I could own my shop and never sell a single flower, I'd do it in a second. That's one of the reasons why I'm so in love with these paintings." Aziraphale tears his eyes away from the bluebells and looks at Crowley with an expression that tugs at Crowley's heart. "Does that sound weird?"

"No," Crowley says softly. "Not as much as you think."

* * *

Crowley starts carrying a sketch book with him everywhere he goes, and he's filled it cover to cover with drawings of flowers. He thought it prudent to get his thoughts down ahead of time, get the painting he wants under his fingers so it'll take him less time to copy it.

Painting a window in the middle of the night – a window that belongs to a shop other than your own – can be a tricky business.

The idea came to him weeks ago when he was stopped by cops while trying to paint angel's trumpets on Aziraphale's window. It took him forever to convince them that he wasn't a vandal and that yes, Aziraphale knows him, and also yes, Aziraphale would approve, but please don't call him to verify because the man is asleep and there's really no reason to wake him. Barely did he convince them not to haul him off to jail, but he had to stop where he was, with the angel's trumpets nowhere near finished to his liking. He waited hours till shift change, then snuck back out after sunrise to get them done.

He may have gotten a few strange looks from passersby, but it was well worth it.

When Aziraphale saw them the next morning, he gasped; stood with a hand to his mouth, staring at them until well after opening. One of his customers, arriving to pick up a communion bouquet, had to remind him to unlock his door. That's how long he stood. And when they left, he went back outside and stared some more.

Later, Aziraphale told Crowley that they'd taken his breath away.

Knowing he'd had that effect on him was more than enough to ensure that Crowley would die a happy man someday.

Carrying a sketch book is something Crowley had done most of his life, during high school and college, through till he first opened his shop. It's something he did when art was a passion for him and not a job. He still loves drawing. Nothing in the world could ever take that away from him. But he does much less in the way of work on canvas now than he did when he first became a tattoo artist to pay the bills, bushy tailed and determined to someday have his own show in a famous gallery.

He hasn't wandered too far from that dream except his shop is his gallery. He still puts original art up on the walls from time to time.

And his art isn't stagnant, doesn't hang in a single location.

He has canvases all over the city.

The jingling of bells signals the arrival of a customer. Crowley has no one on the books so he has no clue who it could be. He figures it'll take whomever never a minute to decide on what they want so he steals a moment to flip through his sketchbook and survey the latest flowers he's drawn. He found most of them by doing a search on his phone so he didn't have the benefit of accurate colors or lighting. How much easier (and better) would it be if he could lamp in Aziraphale's shop and draw the flowers from the arrangements he has there! But all in all, Crowley is pleased with them.

He'll put them up in his shop, offer them as tattoos. They're beautiful, some of his best work.

But they're not quite worthy of Aziraphale's window.

"I'll be right with you," he murmurs, putting the finishing touches on an iris, giving the yellow eyes on the petals dark rings, like kohl liner. "I'm just … I need to … oh, what the fuck do you care …"

"Hello, _Anthony_."

That voice saying his name sends a rampant twist up his spine, torqueing it so tightly it gives him an immediate headache.

"Ugh …" Crowley groans with not a single care that anyone can hear. He takes a reluctant gander at the person strolling about as if they own the place.

_The dreaded ex_ … sort of.

They never properly dated. Crowley took her out for coffee, but it was apparent five minutes in that they had no connection. At least, Crowley didn't think so. His date, however, has other opinions on the subject …

"Whaddya want, Carmine? Happen to be very busy, me."

Carmine stops, looks around, taking in the sight of the empty shop and Crowley, sitting in his chair with a pad on his lap, doodling flowers.

"Looks it," she says dryly. "I was in the neighborhood so I thought I'd drop by. See if you're free for coffee … tea … _me_ ..."

"Well, I'm not. So why don't you run along? Find some other poor sap to harass? There's hundreds of willing victims on Tinder. Go. Be fruitful and multiply. Just not here."

"You know, Anthony," Carmine starts in that tone Crowley knows means she has no intention of going anywhere, "it's been a while. We've taken a break. Re-grouped. Don't you think you're being a tad childish?"

"_Childish_?" Crowley sets his pad and pencil aside so he can stand and continue this argument eye to eye. Besides, the faster he gets this witch out of his shop, the faster he can go back to finishing up his latest piece for Aziraphale's window.

"Yes, childish," Carmine repeats, raising a hand to pat down flyaway strands of crayon red hair on the column of her complicated up-do. "You don't return my phone calls, you don't answer my text messages, you've blocked my number … _Childish_."

"Seeing as I've changed my number _twice_, you'd think you'd get the hint."

"About what, dearest?"

"We don't have a relationship, Carmine! We _never_ had a relationship!"

"That's because you never gave us a chance!"

"I gave you the chance you deserved!" Crowley argues as he tries to usher Carmine out of his shop without actually having to touch her. "Five whole minutes wherein I introduced myself, gave you a brief rundown of my likes and dislikes, and paid for your triple-shot espresso with cayenne pepper and three packets of Splenda! Like _that's_ a real coffee order! Meanwhile, you started a long and frankly scary rant about feeding homeless children to their parents! And when I called you on it, you said it was a _metaphor_!"

"What can I say?" Carmine shrugs. "I'm a journalist. A writer. An artistic type, like you." She runs stiletto nails up the lapels of Crowley's flannel shirt while she speaks, toying with the soft fabric between the tips of her fingers. "I deal a lot in metaphors. I like to make people think. Shake them up a bit."

"Feeding children to their parents is not a metaphor, Carmine! And it doesn't shake me up! It makes me think that you're a disgusting, heartless human being!"

Carmine pouts, but then she grins, too white teeth gleaming viciously through blood red lips. "Oh, but I do like it when you get all hot and bothered, dearest!"

"Grr! I'm not hot _or_ bothered!" Crowley growls as he herds Carmine towards the door and throws it open. "And don't call me dear-"

He bumps her accidentally with his hip. She stumbles back on five inch heels. As a reflex, Crowley reaches out to catch her, his arm circling her waist. He may detest her, but he doesn't want to see her slam her head on the pavement.

Especially not right outside his shop. His insurance premiums would skyrocket!

Her hands curl into the lapels of his button down. Before he can put her back on her feet, she cuts him off with a more painful than sensual kiss on the mouth. He balks the second her lips touch his and tries to yank himself away, but she's surprisingly strong, locking him against her for a full ten seconds before he manages to get her upright and at arm's length.

She smiles at him coolly. Crowley pants in shock and anger, wanting nothing more than to lock his front door and hide between the pages of his sketch book. She runs a finger over her lips, then blows him a kiss.

"Why don't you ring me when you've calmed down a bit. You can take me out to dinner, hmm? That way we can talk about this in _private_."

"Private?" Crowley's eyes snap up, his stomach sinking to his knees as Carmine turns on her heel and struts away, shoulders pulled back and chest thrust out. With her out of his line of sight, he can see straight through the window across the street. He doesn't make out Aziraphale's expression fully. Aziraphale turns away too quickly. But in profile, he looks as wistful as he did that first time he had to scrub the roses off his window, his effervescent smile, the one that lingers like a shadow on his mouth regardless of what he's doing, conspicuously absent.

"Shit! Shit shit shit _shit_!" Crowley spits, slamming his front door with such force he's sure he's cracked the glass.

Irony.

It knows no bounds.

Why does he keep fucking up!? If he'd just had the balls to talk to Aziraphale in the first fucking place, invite him out for coffee, this wouldn't even be an issue! Aziraphale would be rushing over to make sure he's okay instead of possibly thinking that Carmine is Crowley's girlfriend!

His volatile and possessive girlfriend!

What does Crowley do now!?

Does he run across the street and explain?

Does Aziraphale even care as much as Crowley assumes he does?

What can he paint on his window that would convey the sentiment, _That person you saw me talking to? The one who kissed me like they were trying to remove my tonsils? They mean nothing to me!?_

He pulls out his iPhone and jumps online in an attempt to find such an eloquent and expressive flower, one that will say all the things he's been trying to say for the past few months, but, unfortunately, no such savior exists.

Since he can't seem to find one, he decides to go in a different direction.

And he prays it works

* * *

When Aziraphale arrives at his shop in the morning, he is confronted by an intricately painted, hyper-realistic Drosera – a uniquely fascinating (according to Crowley's research) carnivorous plant, commonly known as the sundew, one of the largest genera of carnivorous plants, with at least 194 species. Crowley didn't actually care about any of that. He didn't care about its country of origin, its temperature requirements, its soil pH, or its preferred humidity levels. He cared about the fact that it appeared frighteningly alien, mildly grotesque, and thirsty for blood (he was projecting). He drew its prehensile leaf-parts shimmering with venom, one curled around a plump and wriggling fly.

A fly with the faintest suggestion of a crayon red up-do.

Crowley has no idea what came over him when he painted it. It wasn't Aziraphale's style. But in all its glory, it took him less than an hour to complete.

And whether or not Aziraphale understands the message (unlikely since he doesn't know who's painting his window as it is) he doubles over with laughter when he sees it. When he's done laughing, he shakes his head, his face nearly as red as Carmine's hair, but his smile returns.

And it doesn't leave.

* * *

"Oh my goodness! Come in! Come in! How have you been! I never thought you'd finally find time to visit!"

Crowley hears the words so loud and clear, they sound like they're coming from his own front door. He peeks around the side of his work station and out his window at Aziraphale's shop and spies the man dressed in a red and brown fall themed jumper standing on his landing, arms wrapped around a young couple stopped from entering his shop by the whole of his body embracing theirs.

As friendly as Aziraphale is with his customers, Crowley has yet to see him touch anybody. Watching him now, he can't help feeling jealous.

Aziraphale looks like he gives incredible hugs.

What would he have to do to earn one of those?

Crowley doesn't know who the couple are to him. Children are his first bet. That would open the footlocker to a slew of questions and he hasn't even gotten answers to the first ones yet! They don't look a thing like him, but the couple seem to know Aziraphale well. The young woman wraps her arms around him, then pulls away and shows him her finger.

And Aziraphale squeals for joy.

A wedding.

The couple are getting married.

And Aziraphale couldn't be more thrilled.

He drags the couple into his shop and locks his door, flipping the sign on it to 'Closed', adding another one underneath that reads, 'For pickups, knock twice.'

Crowley feels like a voyeur as he pulls his stool around to the front of his shop, almost in front of his picture window, and watches Aziraphale excitedly show the young couple buckets of flowers – roses in every shade, tulips, irises, carnations, daisies, and other seasonal blooms Crowley doesn't recognize, but which he makes a mental note to Google later.

The couple stay for over three hours, and in that amount of time, they laugh and reminisce, look at pictures on the young lady's phone, call someone on the phone of the young gentleman, and present Aziraphale with a bottle of champagne and what looks like a piece of their wedding cake.

"Is he … is he not going?" Crowley asks out loud as if expecting an answer. "Is that why they brought the champagne? Why wouldn't he go to their wedding? That seems so cruel!"

Crowley decides to reserve judgement until … until _when_? When in Hell is he going to get an answer to that? Who's going to tell him why if he doesn't …?

He gets up from his stool, turns away from the scene playing out across the street, and brews a cup of tea.

When he's less agitated, he returns to the window.

As close as the couple seem to Aziraphale, Crowley manages to determine that neither man nor woman are a relation of his. Not by blood. But they're close. So close that watching them leave, watching them hug Aziraphale good bye, knowing that he's not going to be present on one of the happiest days of their lives, brings tears to Crowley's eyes.

When they depart, Aziraphale stands by the door to watch them go, calling out _Good bye!_ and _Take care!_ and _Be safe!_ and _Have a good time_! till they're well and truly gone.

And then he watches a while longer.

Crowley assumes Aziraphale will clean up and head upstairs to his apartment when they've gone. It's close to eight-thirty as is, long past closing.

But he doesn't.

Aziraphale drags an antique gramophone out of his back room, sets it up in a corner, and puts a record on. Muffled strains of romantic jazz music fills the air as he pops open the bottle of champagne and pours himself a glass. He reaches underneath his counter, in a drawer beneath the cash register, and pulls out a binder. With its puffy white, quilted cover, its pages overflowing, it's stuffed beyond closing correctly. Crowley has seen it before - from a distance, but he knows what it is.

He has one himself.

Only his isn't white and it's much less puffy.

It's an idea book, filled with photos cut from magazines to help inspire customers when they're stumped. Aziraphale opens it to the middle and starts browsing from there. Crowley slides up closer to his window, to a corner that best looks into Aziraphale's shop, leaning forward as far as he dares to get a better look.

Aziraphale flips through page after page of wedding arrangements – bridal bouquets and groom boutonnieres, centerpieces for tables and church pews and altars. Aziraphale pours over each one with a trembling smile on his face.

A smile that becomes smaller and smaller with each page he turns.

These aren't his memories. They're mass produced for the wedding market, which makes how long Aziraphale lingers over each one even sadder. But somewhere between the captions and the msrps lie his own hopes. His own dreams.

He sniffles, raises his glass in the air … and toasts nobody.

A tear rolls down his cheek. He doesn't catch it before another one follows.

Crowley turns away.

He curses himself for watching. For intruding.

For doing nothing worthwhile to help.

For being so blind.

He'd been searching for a middle ground – something in common that they shared while somehow overlooking the most glaring.

That even with all the customers that stop into Aziraphale's shop, day in and day out, Aziraphale is lonely.

_Terribly_ lonely.

Crowley is, too.

He doesn't mind being alone, but being alone and being lonely are two different things. Crowley doesn't have any friends. No one he can call at a moment's notice to grab a drink with, no one to text after a rough day. But the mornings he's spent talking to Aziraphale before they open their shops have been the most fulfilling of his life so far.

That has to count for something.

* * *

Around midnight, Aziraphale puts his gramophone and his idea book away, and carries his bottle of champagne upstairs to bed. Crowley had opened a bottle of wine himself, toasted Aziraphale whenever he raised his glass.

His bottle is much more full than Aziraphale's by the time Aziraphale calls it a night.

While he watched Aziraphale drink away the day, Crowley shelved the painting he'd been working on in favor of something new.

Something with the potential to be a bit more melancholy, but perhaps a bit more apropos.

He thinks back to the flowers Aziraphale had been showing the young couple. He's not too certain what they settled on, but what had he shown them?

Which flowers in particular had made Aziraphale smile the most?

Tulips.

Pale pink tulips.

And calla lilies - bright white and light purple.

Roses. Pastel yellow roses, buds holding hard to their youth a hair longer, not ready to bloom.

There had been others, flowers Crowley had to look up, and he includes those as well: paper thin gladiolus, sweet pea, lily of the valley, buttercups, freesia, gardenias, larkspur, baby's breath. Crowley crafts a wedding bouquet on Aziraphale's window deserving of the young woman with the olive skin and the flowing brown hair who had walked up to Aziraphale's shop and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Deserving, he hopes, of the kind but lonely man who secretly longs for companionship.

Just like him.

* * *

Crowley's stomach has rolled itself over and over throughout the night till, by morning, it's one hard bolt, wringing itself to nausea. And even though his pounding head begs him to abandon his ego this one time and go to sleep, he can't.

He needs to know that he did the right thing putting that bouquet up on Aziraphale's window.

He needs to see Aziraphale lay eyes on it for the first time.

Aziraphale shows up to work late for the first time ever and Crowley doesn't think to blame his clock. He trudges down his stairs at a crippled snail's pace, a hand holding up his head as if it's pounding as hard as Crowley's.

_Probably polished off that bottle of champagne_, Crowley thinks.

If that's the case, Crowley hopes his painting will help take some of the sting off his hangover.

Aziraphale shouldn't be expecting anything new on his window since it's not Monday. He doesn't even look, the throbbing in his head tunneling his vision so that he turns the corner and heads straight to the front door.

Crowley, holding his breath since he saw the toes of Aziraphale's Derbys start to descend the staircase, begins feeling lightheaded.

Suddenly he realizes he's forgotten how to breathe.

Aziraphale aims to stick his key in the lock but misses, fumbling them in his grasp and dropping them on the ground. He looks down at the mess of metal at his feet and sighs, debating between bending over and picking them up or climbing upstairs and going back to bed, praying that one of his more honest customers will find them and slip them in the mail slot for him.

Crowley knows this. He's been this drunk before.

He decides to pick them up, crouching at the knees, lowering his body like an elevator. He doesn't make it to the bottom floor, however, swaying forward and backward, threatening to keel over. He reaches slowly between his legs and sweeps left to right. His key ring catches on his right middle finger and he scoops them up.

In his shop, tucked behind his picture window, Crowley cheers for him.

Standing is easier, the bricks in the wall spaced perfectly, giving him holds to hoist himself up with. He slips the key in the lock and opens the door, glancing subconsciously around to see if anyone noticed his little ballet.

That's when he sees the window.

It draws him out to the sidewalk.

And like with Crowley's first masterpiece, Aziraphale stares – stares so long, Crowley begins to sweat. Aziraphale puts a hand out, reaching for the petals as his eyes take in the elegant wedding bouquet. He doesn't touch it, but unlike the first time, his fingers curl around air like he's trying to grab hold of it.

His empty hand clenches into a fist.

His shoulders shake.

He begins to sob.

He runs inside his shop, straight to his back room.

And Crowley's heart, bouncing on an emotional trampoline since Aziraphale first called him by his name, stumbles over the side and shatters.

_'What have I done?'_ he thinks, slamming his hand on the counter, breaking his pencil in two.

He considers rushing across the street, scraping off the bouquet, and replacing it with something else. Or maybe not. Maybe he should wash it off and leave the window bare. Leave the poor man alone.

Give him a fucking break from the burden of Crowley's unspoken affections.

Crowley knows Aziraphale loves his paintings. The bouquet was one mistake. One setback. But is it worth the grief behind making another mistake if he can't find the guts to walk across the street and ask the man out for coffee? Or apologize? Or fuck it! All those times he's walked across the street to talk to him, why didn't he bring a damn cup of coffee with him!?

Is this really about the fucking coffee!?

Why is he overthinking this?

Aziraphale likes him. Likes his company, anyway. They have to be something in the vein of friends by now.

Acquaintance-friends.

There. That's his open door.

Now walk across the Goddamned street and go through it!

Why can't he get up off his arse and do it?

He leaps up off his stool and walks towards the door. Reaching a hand out for it, he sees red.

_Literal_ red.

On his hand.

He's bleeding.

His broken pencil speared his palm.

He stares at it. It's a scratch, not all that deep. He should wipe it on his pant leg and continue on.

But he doesn't.

He turns around and heads for his back room in search of a bandage he doesn't need.

This isn't an emergency. He isn't bleeding to death.

Why does he overthink _everything_?

That's his problem. His _big_ problem. It's what builds walls between him and other people when he hasn't consciously lifted a trowel.

It's what pushes people away when he would like them to get closer.

But that doesn't matter, does it, since not a single person he's met in his life has tried to climb those walls. Or break them down.

Except for Carmine, but she's got issues of her own.

And that sort of emphasizes his point.

It's not up to other people to climb his walls. _He_ needs to take them apart, build a door or lower a rope ladder.

But he doesn't know how.

Professional help? Therapy? A support group?

Good. That's a start.

But until then, companionship would be nice. Someone to talk to, share a meal with, watch a movie with.

That's all he's looking for.

It's all he wants.

Why is that so damned …?

"Hello?"

Crowley's head jerks up, his neck cracking with the speed. He stands in silence, Band-Aid open in his hand, waiting for another word.

"Is anyone … Anthony?"

Crowley's brow furrows. "Aziraphale?" He peeks out the doorway of his back room. Aziraphale's voice somehow preceded the sound of the bell above the door. Crowley doesn't know how that could have happened, but …

"I'm sorry." Aziraphale walks in the rest of the way, cradling a large bouquet of flowers in his arms, of all things. "Am I interrupting anything? I know I don't have an appointment."

Crowley's gaze meets big blue eyes, red-rimmed from crying and lack of sleep.

But also a Heavenly smile.

"An appointment? Appointment for what?"

"I … I would like to get a tattoo, please. Also, I wanted to bring you these." He hands the flowers to Crowley. "As a thank you for all the work you've done on my window. You're quite talented."

"How did you know it was me?" Crowley asks, tongue-in-cheek since his gig is obviously up.

Aziraphale shrugs. "Lucky guess."

"Thank you for parting with these," Crowley says, giving the flowers a gentle hug when he turns his back in search of a vase to put them in. "I know how you feel about your flowers."

"Well, you're across the street. I can stop by and visit them, replace them when they wilt … like you've done for me."

Crowley finds the vase he's looking for and sticks the flowers in. On his way to the sink to fill it with water, his eyes find the window, and the wedding bouquet that brought Aziraphale to tears.

Crowley sighs. "Look, about your window. I'm sor-"

"Do you have time to do my tattoo right now?" Aziraphale interrupts, his eyes watery but his smile effervescent. "Or would you prefer it if I came back another time?"

"I have time," Crowley says. Aziraphale doesn't want to talk about it. So they won't talk about it. "Do you have any idea what you'd like to get?"

"I do." Aziraphale walks over. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his gallery. Crowley tries not to look over his shoulder, but at the angle Aziraphale is standing, he can't help catching a glimpse at a handful.

They're pictures of the paintings on his window.

Every single one.

And the more peeks Crowley catches, the more he begins to notice a theme.

Aziraphale has taken a photograph of each painting from two perspectives - one from outside his shop looking in as well as from inside looking out. And in each inside picture, somewhere in the background, Crowley can be seen looking out his window towards Aziraphale's shop.

Crowley wonders if Aziraphale noticed.

He wonders if he framed the photos that way on purpose.

The tips of Crowley's ears begin to burn.

"This one." Aziraphale settles on a picture and turns the screen so Crowley can see more clearly.

Crowley smiles at Aziraphale's choice. It seems fitting. "The angel's trumpet?"

"Oh no, my dear. That's a _devil's_ trumpet," Aziraphale corrects with the slyest of grins on his face. "They're very similar until you know what sets them apart. Sometimes Google search switches them around. But that's what it is."

"And you would like it where?" Crowley asks, leading Aziraphale to his chair.

"I was thinking my right bicep would be a nice fleshy place to get my first tattoo."

"Sounds good."

"You know, dear boy, if you wanted to come over and talk, you could have just popped in and said hello. It would probably have saved you time. And paint."

"I don't mind sparing the time. Or the paint." Crowley sits on his stool and readies his gun. He peeks over at his iPhone sitting beside his pots of ink and gets an idea. With a few swipes across the screen, he places an order on the website of the deli down the street for two coffees and a dozen donuts. He smirks when he receives a confirmation text.

_Just because it's a pathetic plan doesn't mean it isn't actionable. _

Crowley looks over his shoulder at Aziraphale reclining in his chair, smiling at him the way he'd pictured dozens of times.

His heart does a double thump, and he smiles back.

"It didn't go to waste."


End file.
